


The Flatmate

by gwenweybourne



Category: Breaking Bad, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Humor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20944190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: THIS FIC IS UNFINISHED AND WON'T BE UPDATEDIn honor of the new Breaking Bad movie, El Camino, I decided to share this partial fic I started fooling around with about 5-6 years ago and could never finish. I just wanted to write certain scenes, but it lacked a narrative drive. It probably should have been a casefic, but that is not my strong suit. Anyway, since Jesse's post-escape story is about to become canon, I'm sneaking in here with my version of it. It's about 7500 words of some pivotal scenes that I really enjoyed writing and I think can be enjoyed as vignettes.Which is that Jesse Pinkman ends up at 221B Baker Street as John Watson's new flatmate after Sherlock's "death." Yeah -- imagine what THAT'S like. Let me show you.





	1. Meeting Jason

John glanced at his watch when the buzzer to 221B went off. He sighed and stood up with some effort, reaching for his cane. When his leg had started giving him some bother again after Sherlock’s death, he had just chalked it up to stress and physical exhaustion. But the weeks passed and it didn’t improve. And one day John found himself reluctantly reaching for his cane to help him get down the stairs. Psychosomatic or not, it wasn’t a problem he’d felt like dealing with. Right now he was focused on the notion of having a new flatmate. He’d received a mysterious message from Mycroft, all but demanding John receive a visitor — a young American man in need of immediate accommodations.

“He’s not military,” Mycroft had said over the phone when John called him back, “but he is, well, you could call him a war veteran of sorts. He’s new to the country and could use a settling influence such as yourself.”

“How old is this ‘veteran,’ exactly?”

“I believe he’s about twenty-six years old.”

Which meant he was twenty-six years old. Mycroft never estimated with numbers.

“He’s a kid!”

“My brother had the emotional maturity of an eleven-year-old. I’m sure this particular young man will seem like an old soul in comparison.”

“Why should he be my problem?”

“He’s not your _problem_, John. He’ll just be your flatmate. I understand that the money would come in handy, wouldn’t it? He’s not short on funds.”

“If that’s the case, then why would he need to flat-share?”

“There are reasons other than the pecuniary that cause people to seek out company for living arrangements. Some people don’t do well alone. I myself can’t imagine why, but I’ve seen it to be true. I believe you fall under that category, John. As it does for young Jason.”

“So is that his name? Jason?”

“It is now.”

John frowned. “What does that mean?”

“What do you think it means?” asked Mycroft, smoothly.

John tightened his grip on his phone. “Is he a … he couldn’t be … Mycroft …”

“Oh, heavens, no, John. He’s not on the run from the law. I’m stung that you think I’d send a fugitive to your door. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s because he decided to co-operate with the law that he is here. Needs a fresh start.”

“Witness protection?”

“Fresh start,” Mycroft repeated firmly. “I think that is all you need to know in that regard. He’s flying into London tomorrow. I’ll send him over immediately. Should be at the flat by three o’clock, barring any flight delays.”

“What is your specific interest in this person? Why are you helping him?”

“I’m doing a favour … for a friend. It’s quite important to him and I do so enjoy helping others.”

“Do I have any choice in this? I’d rather not move. It was … difficult to make the decision to stay here after Sherlock passed, but I did and I don’t want to uproot myself if I don’t like this … kid.”

“Of course, John. And I consider you the primary tenant at 221B now. But I have a feeling you won’t turn Jason out. At least not immediately. You’ll give it a chance. I think you need a new project.”

“A project?”

“Let me know how it goes. Goodbye!”

John’s phone beeped as the call abruptly ended. He exhaled angrily through his nose and thought of yet another curse to add to the list of thousands he’d levied against Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

The bell rang on the proper day at the proper time. John made it to the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath before opening the door. A young man looked up at him from the sidewalk. John was first struck by his eyes. They were a bright, piercing blue, looking as if they were carved into his face, judging by the dark circles underneath. He had a sickly pallor and delicate features that were marred by two angry (and relatively recent-looking) scars on his cheek. He looked nervous and haunted.

_Hunted, even. He looks like he just came back from war._

The man licked his lips and cleared his throat a little. “Hi, uh, are you Doctor Watson?” his voice was gravelly and he spoke with a flat American accent.

“Ah, yes, that would be me, yes. I am,” John finally said, chuckling awkwardly. “You must be Jason. Jason —” John glanced at the scrap of paper he’d used to take down information from Mycroft “— Marcus.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s, uh, me. So, um, I hear you have a room to rent?”

“That’s right,” John replied, backing away from the door to let Jason pass. “Why don’t you pop up ahead of me.” He held up the cane apologetically. “I’m a bit slower on my feet.”

“Okay, cool,” Jason said, hefting his duffel bag and nudging past John in the narrow alcove. He was very slender, his oversized clothes hanging off him, and not extremely tall. He moved carefully, hesitantly, the very opposite of John’s commanding former flatmate. _Oh, stop_, John scolded himself. _No comparisons. There is no reason for it_.

“Uh, did you have, like, an accident?” Jason asked as they climbed the stairs. “Y’know, why you gotta use a cane now.” Then he flinched. “Oh, shit. Sorry … maybe you’re … fuck … sorry, I shouldn’t have …”

John cracked half a smile and saved Jason from his awkward stammering. “I was in the army. Was wounded in Afghanistan.” That was truth enough.

“Whoah, really?” Jason’s ear tips were flushed red with embarrassment over his verbal gaffe as he opened the door to the flat, but clearly relieved to be off the hook. “That’s crazy …”

But he saw the flat and his curiosity shifted elsewhere as he stepped into the sitting room and set his bag down. “Wow. This place. It’s like —”

“Very nice, I know. It’s—”

“— old.”

“… oh.”

Jason turned to look at him, stricken once more. “Oh, shit, sorry, man. Again. God, I’m fucking this up. I didn’t mean to diss your pad. I mean, I’m just … like, where I come from …”

_Christ, he’s clearly nervous, but could he string together sentence without saying “uh” or “like” or cursing? Kids!_

“Um, everything is pretty new. Where I come from,” Jason said apologetically. “Nothing’s really been around long enough to get that old. Unless you count the 1970s.”

“Ah, yes,” said John dryly. “The olden days. We only had one telly channel and phones stayed rooted in one spot. How ever did we survive?”

Jason looked at him for a long moment, then continued as if John hadn’t said anything. “I just never lived in an old place before. Shitboxes, yeah, but that’s different. That’s just a new place that’s been trashed. This is an old place that’s been taken care of it. It’s got, like, what do they say? Character?”

“That it does,” John said. He pointed his cane in the direction of the stairs. “My room is up there.” Then he pointed it down the hall. “And that would be yours. Toilet … er, _bathroom_, on the left.”

Jason nodded and shuffled down the hall. John didn’t follow. He couldn’t say he liked the notion of someone else sleeping in Sherlock’s room. Not that Sherlock had slept there often, but still, it was his room. Had been his room. Had been empty for well over a year now.

“Hey, this is rad!” he heard Jason call from down the hall. “Cool space. Yeah, this is good.” He shuffled back into the sitting room. “But, uh, y’know, with your bad leg n’all, wouldn’t you rather have this room? So you don’t have to use the stairs every time you wanna take a whiz?”

“A …whiz?” John asked slowly.

“Uh, yeah.” Once again, the young man blushed a little. “Sorry. The way people talk here. I’m not used to it yet. Um, y’know, to take a piss. Do you guys say that here?”

“Yes. We do,” John replied. “Not to be confused with taking _the_ piss.”

Jason’s brow furrowed. “What’s the difference?”

“When someone’s taking _the_ piss it means they’re making fun of you.”

“Oh. Well, good to know. But I’m used to that.”

“People making fun of you?”

“Yeah. All the time. It’s … whatever.” He shrugged. “But, seriously, yo, you don’t want the main floor room?”

John shook his head, but found himself surprised and strangely touched that this strange boy would note John’s … infirmity … so immediately and take that into consideration. “No. I’ve had my room for a few years and I’m too used to it. I’d rather not move. The room is yours if you want it.”

_Wait … did I just agree to house this scruffy American whom I just met and who can barely speak coherently?_

“Cool, great, thanks. I mean it.” Jason ducked his head and scratched the back of his head shyly. “I, uh, don’t know anyone here and I’m kinda short on references, y’know? But I was told you’d be cool. You’d understand.”

“I’m not sure how much I understand, really,” John said carefully. “But I understand that you’ll pay the rent in full, on time, you won’t make too much noise, and you won’t smoke in the flat.” He eyed the packet of cigarettes poking out of Jason’s pocket. Jason looked down.

“Oh, yeah. Uh, sure, no problem. I’ve been thinking of quitting anyway.” He shoved the packet deeper into his pocket.

“Right,” John said. He cleared his throat a little. “So, fresh off the plane. You must be exhausted.”

Jason ran a hand over his face and nodded. “Yeah. I think. I … have no idea what time or day it is now. That was the longest-ass plane ride I’ve ever taken. I feel like I should be in, like, Australia or something. Or Timbuktu. Somewhere super far. London doesn’t seem like it would be that far, y’know? All I know is that I flew out around seven o’clock on Tuesday night.”

“Where did you fly from?” John asked.

Jason froze for a moment, then shrugged in an attempt to seem nonchalant. “West coast,” he said vaguely.

“Right. So that’s about thirteen hours on the plane, plus a seven-hour time difference. It’s just past three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon. If you’d gone to Australia, you’d have lost an entire day.”

Jason looked at him, confused. “A whole day? Like … gone?”

“Yes,” John replied, cocking his head slightly.

“Dude, that’s messed up,” Jason mumbled, almost to himself. “Can you imagine? ‘Yo, what did you do on July twenty-fourth, man?’ ‘Ah, nothin’. I missed that day. Never happened.” He cracked up a little. “That’s wack.”

“Yes. Wack,” John said. “Um, perhaps you’d like a lie-down. Or a cup of tea?”

“Uh, tea. Yeah. Tea would be awesome. Thanks.”

“Tea … awesome …” John muttered as he hobbled to the kitchen. He wondered if this was how Sherlock had felt all the time around people who were more than a little dim. Or just “people” in general. He also wondered if he’d just made a regrettable mistake.

* * *

“Tea,” said Jason about ten minutes later, cradling the mug in his hands, looking into the steaming liquid. “This wasn’t what I was expecting.” They were in the sitting room. John in his chair and Jason in what used to be Sherlock’s. John was already a little agitated by the sight, but then this question caused him to grip the arm of his own chair.

“What else could _tea_ possibly be?” The words came out more harshly than he’d intended.

Jason shrugged helplessly. “This is hot tea.”

“Yes? I certainly couldn’t serve it cold.”

“Sure you can. That’s, like, tea. Some people call it iced tea. In the South you can get sweet tea, too. It’s kinda different all around, but _tea_ is cold. _Hot tea_ is hot. Right?” He looked at John as if this explanation wasn’t completely ludicrous.

“I did ask you if you wanted milk and sugar.”

“Yeah, see, I didn’t hear the milk part. Just sugar. But this is fine, man. Seriously, it’s cool. I’ve just always been more of a coffee guy when it comes to hot drinks. But caffeine is caffeine. I’ll take it.” He raised the mug to his lips and sipped slowly, swallowing, and smacking his lips slightly before lowering it and nodding his head affirmatively. “Yo, that’s solid, Doctor Watson. I could get used to that.”

“John. You can call me John.”

“Okay, cool. Are you, like, a real doctor-doctor? Like, medicine?”

“Yes.”

“And you were a doctor in Afghanistan?”

“Yes.”

“Wow,” Jason said for the second time. “I bet you saved a lot of lives. That’s amazing.”

“I did my best. It didn’t always work out that way.” John cocked his head. “Don’t you want to hear about the action? People your age are usually curious about that.”

Jason’s piercing blue eyes flicked up at John and the doctor was startled to see that haunted look again. “Naw, naw,” he mumbled, looking down just as quickly, clutching the mug a little tighter. “I don’t need to hear about that. I’ve seen … I mean … I can imagine it. People think killing someone is gonna be like it is in a fuckin’ video game and it’s not. It’s … bad …” He gritted his teeth and appeared to curse silently. John noted the slosh of the liquid as Jason’s shaky hand set the mug down.

“Are you all right?” John murmured.

Jason put his head in his hands for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, yeah. Y’know, I think maybe you were right. I should probably crash for a while. I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore. It’s been a long trip.” He stood up, unnecessarily tugging down his oversized T-shirt. “Thanks for the tea, Doc…John. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Get some sleep. Doctor’s orders,” John said with mock sternness, pointing a finger.

Jason managed a wan smile. “Right. Good to have a doctor in the house, right?” He raised a hand in goodbye and shuffled off down the hall.


	2. Meeting Jesse

The nightmares started right away. Not for John — his own nightmares had returned after Sherlock’s death. Night after night reliving the horror of Sherlock’s shaky, tearful voice in his ear, John’s sweaty hand clutching at the phone. Begging and pleading with his friend, all for naught. Watching Sherlock plunge off the roof of Bart’s and the sickening sound of his body hitting the pavement. Sherlock — strong, clever, powerful Sherlock — reduced to little more than a bag of broken bones, flesh, and blood on the pavement. Some nights John had woken up screaming. But he’d resumed therapy with Ella, evened out with some medications, and gradually he was able to get through the night again.

Apparently his new flatmate hadn’t reached that point. The first night John stirred to the sound of fearful moans and a thumping against the wall downstairs. He’d thought little of it and had returned to sleep. But as the first days passed, the nights grew worse. On the third night John woke up to screaming — and it wasn’t his own. He sat up in bed, unsure of what to do. He barely knew the kid, but this wasn’t right. Mycroft had, for reasons unknown, specifically sent this young man to John. Because John had PTSD? Because John was a doctor? Regardless, the elder Holmes was well aware that John was ill-equipped to resist someone in need of medical help. He wasn’t a mental health professional, but he knew when someone required one.

He slipped on his robe and made his way downstairs. The screaming had shifted into sobbing and John was unsure if Jason had awoken from his dream or not. He knocked softly on the door. And then he heard Jason cry out, “No. NO! NOOOOO PLEASE! DON’T! I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU … GOD, NO!”

John opened the door and hunkered down by Jason’s bed so he wasn’t looming threateningly over the young man. “Jason,” he said firmly, gripping his shoulder and shaking him gently. “Jason, you need to wake up. It’s a dream. Jason …”

Jason’s eyes flew open and in the dim light coming into the room via a streetlamp, John could see that his flatmate still wasn’t awake. John sat on the edge of the bed and gripped both shoulders as Jason flailed. “Jason! Wake up! It’s John!”

“No, NO!” Jason cried, fighting against John’s grip. “Please, I don’t know! Who the fuck is Jason? I’m Jesse! Jesse!”

“JESSE!” John yelled sharply.

Jason stiffened in John’s grasp, then went limp, lapsing into broken sobs, his eyes wild and unfocused, his hands reaching up to paw at John’s shoulders. “I … I don’t know who the fuck I am anymore. I …” His face contorted in agony. “I can’t do this. I can’t … help me …”

“Shhhh,” John soothed. “First off, you need to breathe, okay? Take three deep breaths for me. Come on now, one …”

Jason’s chest heaved and he dragged a breath in through a congested nose and forced it out between pursed lips, his chest shuddering with the effort.

“Two …”

Another tortured breath.

“Three …”

One more. Tears still streamed down Jason’s face, but his hysteria seemed to be ebbing slightly.

“That’s good,” John said. “Very good. Keep breathing. Slow. Focus on the breath.” He released Jason and leaned back to give him space for a few moments as he calmed. And then he said softly, “Now maybe you’d like to tell me what your real name is.”

Jason tensed up again.

“Mycroft said something about witness protection. It’s okay, you can trust me. I won’t tell anyone. Mycroft trusted me to take you in. For what reasons yet, I don’t know, but this is what Mycroft does and I intend to find out what’s behind it.”

Jason swallowed hard and shook his head. “No … not witness protection.”

“No?” John was surprised.

Jason let out a choking cry. “No … no one left alive to come after me. They’re all gone. Mr. White took care of that. But … before that … I was helping the cops. Drug Squad.”

“Okay, you’ve lost me,” John said, sitting down firmly on the floor to ease the ache in his leg from crouching.

Jason scrubbed the palm of his hand over his wet face and sat up slowly. “My name … is Jesse. I was involved … I-I used to cook crystal meth with a partner. Walter White. He had cancer and wanted to earn fast money to leave to his family. He used to be my fuckin’ high school chemistry teacher.”

“Jesus,” John breathed.

“But things got real … messed up. Like … real bad,” Jason-now-Jesse said, eyes shining, speaking quickly as if he were afraid he’d lose his nerve before the words got out. “I got caught by the DEA trying to burn down his house.”

John stared at him with wide eyes, jaw dropping.

Jesse glared back at him, defensive. “I’m not a fucking arsonist, okay? You don’t know what he did! You have no fucking idea what he did … you don’t …” Jesse buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

“Okay, okay,” John said, fighting to keep his voice calm. _Who the hell is this person that Mycroft decided I should live with? Should I be afraid?_

“I did my bit with the cops. I made a deal and got off. My record is clean, okay?” Jesse dragged the sleeve of his T-shirt over his swollen eyes. “And I was trying to get my shit together and doing really bad at it. That’s when I met this guy who knew Mycroft and he said he could get me out of the States. Like … legally. And I needed to get out. So here I am.”

John pressed his lips together. “Who exactly is this ‘friend’ of Mycroft’s?”

Jesse shrugged. “Dunno, man. Just this undercover dude who was tracking some bad guys. He didn’t give me his real name.”

“You say some ‘real bad’ things happened.”

“Yeah.”

“Care to fill me in?”

Jesse snuffled and gazed bitterly at John. “You wouldn’t even believe it if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“If I hadn’t cut a deal with the cops, telling you what I know would make you an accessory after the fact.”

“But you did, so I’m safe. I’ll make a pot of tea — hot tea, which apparently you now like — and you’re going to tell me everything.”

* * *

An hour later, John’s first cup of tea sat cold, half drunk. He was unconsciously gripping the table so hard his knuckles had turned white. Jesse — he’d have to get used to calling him that now — had just described horrors beyond the doctor’s comprehension. A world so completely beyond his ken.

“Six months,” he repeated dully. “You were chained up in that dungeon for six months. A slave. Cooking drugs for neo-Nazis.”

Jesse nodded, staring at the table. “After they murdered my girlfriend. In front of me.” His tone was dull by now. John knew Jesse had cried all tears he had over this trauma and he was numb to the telling of this story. John had watched someone he cared for die in front of him. Sherlock’s death was classified as a suicide, but John knew it was murder. He had no tears left to cry, either.

“How … how the hell did you get from there to here?”

Jesse shrugged. “Mr. White came back. I didn’t know why. I thought maybe for the money those guys had stolen from him. Or maybe to kill me. Since Jack and them hadn’t done it the first time. They brought me out to him and I figured he was gonna finish me off.”

John massaged his temples, unable to process all he was hearing. “And then what?” he whispered, dreading the answer.

“Mr. White wasted them all. But he saved me. Took a bullet in the process. And then he gave me the keys to his fucking car and I got the hell out of there. Never looked back.”

“And what happened to him?”

“He died before the cops could nail him. Bled out from the bullet wound. He was already in bad shape from the cancer. His family wanted nothing to do with him. He had nothing left to lose. I hid out for a while and then finally decided to go to the cops and make it right. I couldn’t live with it — knowing Hank and Gomez were still buried out there in the desert. But they already knew. Mr. White had told his wife. The cops found my confession tape at Jack’s, so that’s what got me off.”


	3. Meeting Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few weeks later and the new flatmates are forming a friendship of sorts and new habits. While out shopping, Jesse Pinkman meets Molly Hooper.
> 
> (I had pictured a storyline with John helping Jesse get into therapy to start dealing with his PTSD and Jesse beginning to show improvements in his mental state. Meanwhile, Jesse's company and boisterous ways help John with his grief and get him to participate more in the world again. Just loved the idea of the two of them helping each other.)

John and Jesse went out on a Saturday afternoon to do the grocery shopping. They took turns doing the shop, but even when it was John’s turn, Jesse found some reason to tag along. Mostly, “Yo, I got nothin’ else goin’ on. Whatever. I’m bored.” John knew it was because his flatmate didn’t want him struggling with the shopping with only one hand free, but he appreciated that Jesse didn’t make him feel embarrassed about it.

It was easier talking with Jesse now. He and John were still worlds apart in terms of their backgrounds and personality, but they’d found some common ground and Jesse’s puppyish need to please had grown on the doctor.

“John … John, hello!” a soft female voice trilled in the distance.

John looked up and smiled. “Molly! Hello!”

Molly was laden down with shopping bags and waved awkwardly, making her way over through the throngs of shoppers.

Jesse looked quizzically at John.

“Old friend,” John explained. “She works in the lab at Bart’s — the hospital. She used to help Sherlock out a great deal with his cases.”

Jesse nodded approvingly. “Cute. You hittin’ that?”

John looked at Jesse, aghast. “… _Hittin’_ that? God, no. Do you have to be so bloody crude all the time?”

Jesse raised his hands in supplication. “Chill, yo. Just wanted to know what the sitch was with you two.”

Molly walked up to them, pink-cheeked, and slightly out of breath. “Hello!” she said again, leaning in to peck John on the cheek, and nodding at Jesse with a little smile. “So lovely to see you, John. It’s been far too long. How are you?” Her eyes drifted down to the cane.

John pretended not to notice. “Well, very well, thank you, Molly. Um, I’d like to introduce you to Jes … Jason.”

Jesse’s jaw twitched.

“My new flatmate at 221B,” John continued. “He’s newly emigrated from America. Jason, this is Molly.”

“Oh, how exciting,” Molly enthused. “Welcome to London, Jason. I’d shake your hand, but as you see I’m a bit weighed down … oh!” A couple of bags threatened to slip from her grasp.

Jesse leaned in and easily caught them, slipping his hand through the handles. “Careful,” he cautioned, with a small smile. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Oh, thank you!” said Molly. “I can take those …”

Jesse shrugged modestly. “Let me hold them until you have to go. For some reason it’s easier to carry heavy stuff when you’re moving rather than when you’re standing still. I guess there’s some scientific reason for that.”

Molly smiled. “Physics wasn’t my best subject, but there’s a law that explains that. About objects in motion.” She looked kindly at John. “Sherlock would have known to the letter, I’m sure.”

John smiled, nodded, then changed the subject. “So, what’s up?”

Flustered at having brought up Sherlock in front of John, Molly laughed awkwardly. “Oh, you know, the sky, the birds, the tallest trees …”

The corners of John’s eyes crinkled affectionately for Molly. Here is where Sherlock would chime in with a cutting remark about Molly’s attempts at humour.

Instead he heard a rough chuckle next to him. He looked at Jesse.

Jesse was looking at Molly. “That’s funny,” he said.

“Oh no,” Molly demurred, blushing. “It wasn’t …”

“A little bit funny, then,” said Jesse holding up his thumb and forefinger spaced minutely apart. “Only the tallest trees, right? Screw those shrubs, yo. They ain’t up.”

Molly giggled, her face shining with pleasure. John looked on, amazed. Then he cleared his throat. “Well, we should be getting on home,” he said, making a point of checking his watch.

Jesse and Molly finally remembered John was standing there and Jesse looked over at him. “Um, yo, John, I was thinking, maybe, if it’s okay with Molly, I might help her haul all this stuff back to her place. It’s, like, a lot of stuff.” He looked at Molly. “I mean, if you want me to. Do you live far?”

“Oh, no!” Molly said.

Jesse looked a little disappointed.

“Oh, no, I didn’t ‘oh no, I don’t want you to …’” Molly stammered. “I meant ‘oh, no, I don’t’—”

“—live far …” they finished in unison, laughing.

“Give me strength,” John muttered to himself. “Yes, yes, go on then. For the love of god, please.”

The two moved off together, Molly already laughing at something else Jesse had said and John shook his head in wonderment, beginning to move on. And then he stopped suddenly. _Molly Hooper. Sweet, oh-so naive Molly Hooper. With Jesse. The abused, traumatized recovering drug addict with the criminal past. Blimey_. He turned slightly and called out, “And … you … you two behave yourself, yeah? Call me if you’re coming back for tea, _Jason_.”

“Yeah, _Dad_,” Jesse called back sarcastically.

“Bloody kids,” John muttered, shuffling off.

* * *

Jesse returned several hours later, thumping clumsily up the stairs in his large trainers. John had started preparing dinner, pretending not to worry why his flatmate had been away so long with Molly.

“So … did you get lost coming back?” he asked, trying to keep his tone light.

Jesse wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge, peering inside. “No. Like she said, it wasn’t that far. Why?”

“Oh, no reason …” John mumbled.

Jesse plucked out a can of soda and opened it, taking a swig and levelling his gaze at John. “C’mon. Spit it out. I know you’re dying to ask.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John chopped a carrot with extra savagery.

“Jesus,” Jesse drawled, rolling his eyes. “You’re really living up to the stereotype right now. You old English dudes with sticks up your asses. Never saying what you really mean. Though, what am I talking about? I spent two of the fuckin’ worst years of my life dealing with a guy like that back home. I’m sick of it, okay? If you got a beef with me, just say it!”

John put down the knife and turned to face Jesse. “All right. All right. What … what were you doing with Molly?”

“She invited me in for coffee.”

“For coffee?”

“Yeah, for coffee! She drinks coffee, not fucking _hot tea_! Like a normal person!” Jesse said defensively. “She’s nice. She’s cute. She thought I was funny. She asked me if I wanted a coffee and I said yeah, so I went in and we had coffee. That’s all. Not that it’s any of your goddamned business. But since you asked.”

“Molly is a good friend. A good woman. I just …”

“You just. What.” Jesse glared at John.

“I didn’t like that thing you said before you met her! About —” John made air quotes with his fingers “— ‘hittin’ that.’ Molly is sweet and intellectually brilliant but socially a bit naive and —”

“— you don’t think I’m good enough for her,” Jesse finished the sentence.

John blinked. “Well …”

“Well, guess what, genius, you’re not tellin’ me anything I don’t already know,” Jesse spat, slamming down the soda, causing some to slosh on the counter. “I know she’s out of my league. She’s got like, _degrees_. Like, more than one! The last time I tried to get a straight job, they thought I was only good enough to hold signs on the fuckin’ sidewalk for six bucks an hour. She’s probably never even gotten a parking ticket. She has a photo of her cat in the bathroom. She’s pretty and she’s nice and she has no idea how great she is and she has NO IDEA who I am!” He was nearly hysterical now. “The shit I’ve done. The shit I’ve seen and the people I’ve associated with. The kind of people she helps the police to put in jail. You know what I told you about my ex-partner, Walt? The first week I met that dude he taught me how to make a body disappear so people like her couldn’t find them and figure out what had been done to them. He showed me how to DISSOLVE A GODDAMN CORPSE and he made me do it and I DID IT!”

Jesse curled his hands into fists and paced the kitchen, his eyes shining, while John watched, agape. “She has no idea that I was strung out on heroin less than two months ago. I know all that shit, John. I know _I’m_ shit. But a pretty girl let me carry her bags and she laughed at my lame-ass jokes and then asked me to have a cup of coffee with her and I thought, ‘Hey, shitheel, you’ve been doing pretty good lately. Maybe you deserve a break today. Why not?’ But that’s all that happened. I drank my coffee. We talked. I used her cute bathroom with the cat picture. It smelled like flowers. I left. I didn’t ‘hit’ _nothin’_. I’m not like that. I talk a big game, because that’s what I learned to do, but I don’t play that way. Not with anyone I actually like. And believe me, any woman who ‘hit’ me didn’t think I was anything more than a dick and a distraction from her shitbag husband. So you don’t have anything to worry about, ’kay? Your friend survived an afternoon in the company of a loser degenerate. By the way — maybe, if you think she’s so fuckin’ smart, you might think she knows her own fucking mind and who she wants to invite into her home, you condescending asshole!” Jesse’s expression was twisted with loathing, but John had a feeling it wasn’t wholly directed at him. Maybe a little. Maybe he, like everyone else, was never giving Molly enough credit.

Jesse smacked his palm hard against the wall and stormed out of the sitting room, heading back out of the flat.

“Where … where are you going?” John asked, his voice cracking just slightly.

“Out! Not to see her, don’t you worry, pal. See ya when I see ya.” The outer door slammed a few moments later.

John walked to the front window of the sitting room and watched Jesse storm down the street. He remembered a night when he was so furious with Sherlock that he stormed out in a similar fashion. He wondered if Sherlock watched him leave this way. Wondered if he wondered and worried the way John did now.


	4. Meeting the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The part I didn't write was John overhearing Jesse on the phone and completely misconstruing the conversation. Now convinced that Jesse is one of Moriarty's operatives, John goes for his gun.

Quiet, very quietly, John unlocked the desk drawer and took out his gun. Exiting the bedroom, he slowly made his way downstairs, using the banister for support. Jesse was off the phone and sitting in Sherlock’s chair, rubbing his forehead wearily. John approached silently from behind, weapon drawn. “Who was on the phone, Jesse?”

Jesse flinched, startled. “Oh, shit. John, I didn’t know you were home.” He turned around and saw the gun and his eyes flew wide open. “Oh … oh, shit, dude, what are you doing? Put the gun down! John, what the fuck …”

“You’re working for him … his network,” John said, speaking firmly, but unable to keep his voice from shaking. “You were planted here to spy on me. Waiting for the right moment. Carrying out the master’s plans.”

Jesse’s brow furrowed, even as his eyes stayed trained on the barrel of John’s revolver. “Working for who? What are you talking about?”

“MORIARTY!” John bellowed. “You’re part of his network. Doesn’t matter that he’s dead — he set things in motion, didn’t he? Who are you reporting to? I swear to god, Jesse, you better tell me everything or …”

“Or what?” Jesse snapped. “Are you gonna waste me? _Doctor_ Watson? Right here, in cold blood, in your apartment?”

“I have strong reason to believe you mean me harm, Jesse,” John said tersely, stepping forward. “James Moriarty fooled Mycroft Holmes and killed my best friend and I sure as hell won’t let him take me down, too.” He pressed the barrel of the gun to Jesse’s forehead.

Jesse started shaking, his breath coming in great gulps, his eyes tearing. “John, please …”

“Tell me everything now. Is anyone else targeted? Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade? Oh, god, Molly … he’s bloody well done it again … I swear to god, if you’ve hurt her …”

“NO! It’s not like that!” Jesse cried, tears starting to drip down his face. “I’m not supposed to tell you. You weren’t supposed to be home. I’m always so fucking careful!”

“Tell me. What.” John forced the words out between gritted teeth.

“It’s Sherlock, okay?” Jesse blurted, spittle flying from his shaking lips. “It’s Sherlock. He’s not dead, John. I swear. I was talking to Sherlock!”

John’s hand twitched. “How dare you tell a lie like that. Sherlock is dead. I saw him jump off a building! I saw the blood! I took his pulse! Sherlock Holmes is dead and you _dare_ use his name to worm your way out of this situation? I could kill you right now …”

“_Vatican cameos_,” Jesse whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

John blinked. “What did you just say?”

“Every week I get note from Mycroft with a code,” Jesse sobbed, his face wet with tears, his nose running. “Sherlock uses the code when he calls. So I know it’s him. He uses a different phone every time. I can never contact him — I just receive his calls. If I don’t hear the code, then I’ll know he’s being coerced and I don’t tell him anything. That was this week’s. He sends codes like Hamish, your middle name. November 17 … your birthday. He told me.”

“You could have seen my driver’s license,” John murmured.

“What about Death Frisbee?” Jesse pleaded, shaking, looking up at John plaintively. “Please, John. You don’t have to totally believe me yet, but please, just put the gun down. Please. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

John’s lip quivered. “There’s no way you could have known that. Not even Mycroft knows that. It was just a silly comment he made one time about that hat …”

“Right? He faked it, John. Dying. He had to. To protect you.” Jesse’s voice cracked and heaved. “To protect everyone. He told me all about it in Alaska. That’s where I met him. He’s been tracking Moriarty’s operatives. Bringing them down one by one. When he’s got them all and can clear his name, he’s coming back. But until then it was safer for you all to think he was dead.”

John lowered the gun and Jesse whispered a “thank you” before burying his head in his hands, weeping brokenly. John sank into the opposite chair and stared at Jesse. Part of him was feeling guilty for pointing a gun at him — one of Jesse’s major PTSD triggers — but John had felt betrayed and been genuinely fearful for his safety and chances couldn’t be taken. With his free hand he reached into his pocket for a tissue and offered it to Jesse.

“I-I’m sorry, Jesse,” he stammered. “I couldn’t … I thought you were going to kill me … or others. I’m sorry, I know … please … Moriarty has tricked Mycroft before …”

He carefully set the gun down on the table and took his hand away from it. It took a minute before Jesse was able to shakily accept John’s offering, wiping at his face and blowing his nose.

“You need to tell me everything,” John said quietly. “From the beginning, that is, when you apparently met Sherlock in Alaska. To how the hell you ended up here, living with me, and giving him reports on my activities. That’s why you’re here, yes?”

Jesse nodded, looking down at his hands. “Yeah. He was worried. And pissed off with Mycroft for not keeping a closer eye on you. I was in a bad situation and wanted to get out and he was able to offer me that out. It worked for both of us.”

“What ‘situation,’ exactly?” asked John. “And what the hell was Sherlock doing in Alaska, of all places?”

“Like I said, he was tracking someone,” Jesse said shakily. “This guy was part of Moriarty’s network. He was into some nasty shit. Also part of the drug trade, which apparently Moriarty disapproved of because he thought it was a trashy business full of lowlifes who get caught because they’re high and stupid. Y’know, which is pretty much true. This guy, Robitaille, seemed pretty relieved that Moriarty was dead. I think he was worried he’d been added to some hit list because of his drug connections.”

“Drug connections,” John repeated. “Which is how …”

Jesse nodded. “I relapsed again. Big time. I thought getting out of New Mexico and away from Mr. White would fix me up. I had this vision of living this clean, simple life up there, but, like, you know that saying, ‘Wherever you go, there you are,’ and all my problems came with me, except now I was alone in this isolated Alaskan town and it was cold and shitty I just couldn’t deal. Small, isolated towns are full of people who have nothing to do and nothing going for them, so they’re usually full of drugs. Didn’t take me long to get hooked up. And then I could just fill my time with crystal and heroin. Waiting to die. Until one day your guy showed up in town.”

“Sherlock,” John breathed.

Jesse rested his elbows on his knees and ran his palms over his short, spiky hair before cradling the back of his neck. “He didn’t look like he does in the pictures you showed me. He had a blond dye job that was half grown out and it looked like he’d cut his hair with kitchen scissors with his eyes closed. Scruffy beard and dirty clothes. He looked like the kind of lowlife who’d be hanging with the druggies in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere. He was posing as a dealer.”

John frowned. “He didn’t …”

Jesse shook his head. “Naw, he didn’t use. He was working the dealer angle. Y’know, don’t shit where you eat sorta thing. Like Walt always did. Me, I didn’t have so many problems with eating some shit, y’know? Anyway, he was hanging out, asking questions about Robitaille, but subtle. You say how good he is at this detective business and I see it.” Jesse looked up with swollen eyes and chuckled roughly. “Damned if he didn’t see right through me. That’s how this all got started.”

John looked at Jesse quizzically. He realized he was mostly buying the story. Maybe because he so desperately wanted to believe that Sherlock was still alive. Out there in the world somewhere. That Sherlock wanted to come home. He tried to keep listening objectively and parse for the facts. He needed proof.

“He, uh, well, one day it was just me and him. Since Robitaille wasn’t around, I tried to score some dope off Sherlock. But, he, like, ignored my question and started asking me stuff. Where I was from and how long I’d be in town and I was like, ‘Yo, what’s with the third degree?’ and he was like, ‘Yo, I’ve seen community theater actors who are more convincing about their character’s story.’ Real sarcastic-like.” Jesse pointed a finger at John. “Sherlock’s a real dick, you know that?”

John smiled in spite of himself. “I know.”

“Right? He tells me all this shit about how my tan-line shows that I’m from a warmer climate and that I react, like, a nanosecond too late when someone calls me Jason, and, fuck, like a million other stupid little details that no normal person would ever notice. And then he said I really gave myself away because …” Jesse paused, looking down again “… of how I look like a hunted animal. He said he knew because it’s how he’s seen himself in the mirror every day for a year. Like … we’re both on the run, right?”

John blinked and tears slowly slid down his face. He believed now. Sherlock was alive. Had been this whole time. Living underground and running. Alone. Without John. He was furious and deeply saddened at the same time.

John’s show of emotion triggered Jesse again and his own eyes filled. “And, I just, like, lost it, John. He just got right to the heart of it. He said the difference between me and him was that while he was running from something, he knew what he was running _to_. And I didn’t. And then he asked me if I wanted to stop using. I said yeah. He said the thing he was running to and the thing that got him to stay clean was the same thing.” Jesse met John’s teary gaze and swallowed hard. “You.”

John buried his head in his hands and wept.

Jesse took a shaky breath, pounding the arm of the chair a couple of times to try to get under control while he let John have a few moments. When the doctor’s weeping subsided slightly, he continued. “So, he made me a proposition. If I could get myself straight enough to get the fuck out of that place and travel overseas — like, detox first — he’d get his brother to make arrangements for me to move to London and come live with you. And I’d get paid. With, like, _conditions_. I have to stay clean, I have to keep an eye out to make sure you aren’t being targeted by Moriarty’s goons, I have to report to Sherlock once a week about how you’re doing, and, the most important thing of all —”

“— You couldn’t tell me that you knew he was alive,” John whispered, wiping his face and looking up at Jesse.

Jesse wiped his nose with the back of his hand and nodded. “Fuck, yeah. That was the top priority. Well, second to me staying clean. And even that was out of concern for you not living with an active user. He … told me he’s an addict, too, and he understood. But I know I’m only here because it benefits you. He doesn’t really give a shit about me as long as I’m doing my job.”

John managed a shuddery laugh. “He’s a fucking dick.”

Jesse managed a wan smile. “Maybe. But he’s, like, the best friend ever. You’re lucky. I know it doesn’t feel like that right now, but you’re so fucking lucky to have someone care about you like that. I have no idea what that’s like.”

John raised his head further to look at Jesse, seeing his gun in his peripheral vision. “You have people now, Jesse. You have Mrs. Hudson and Molly and … me. And I’m so bloody sorry I put a gun to your head. Knowing what I know. What that did to you. I’m really sorry. I believe you. I wouldn’t do that kind of thing unless I felt really threatened.”

“It’s okay,” Jesse murmured, shrugging. “I get it, I —”

“No, it’s not okay,” said John firmly. “It’s never okay. It just what people do sometimes. When they feel they have no other choice.”

Jesse nodded solemnly. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry if this was a horrible tease. I've just had these bits sitting on my computer for years and I'm really proud of them and wanted to share. Maybe some day I'll get inspired to flesh it out into a real fic, but I'm just not in that head space. But maybe El Camino will help me. Thanks for reading!


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